if exhaustion is beauty i can be feminine enough

there is in fact something beautiful in what it does
for me: i can be
a quiet pool of depth, cold and smooth like water, but also
bright with fire, sharper eyes, longer claws.
which me do you prefer?
when you refuse to stay with me-- and
you do-- we will all
find out together, in the dark.

i wake 3am with nightmares that
make my skin crawl, or sometimes, wake
to the sound of my own voice saying no;
i do not need a key to unlock
what i was dreaming of that time, but i wish
you were here to cinch it tight again.

if exhaustion makes me beautiful then touch me

i may in this moment be worth
the weight of your gaze; how do you
judge me now? in deep purple, blessed obelisks,
spin me hand-in-hand on the deck
in the lunar spotlight, hushed by bright moths
and the heat of your skin,
so that i will land blushing at your feet.
no one will blame you for my imbalance.